Vientiane, Meet Paris

The cities of Laos have managed to adopt the culture of their former European master more completely than anywhere else in the region.

Vietnam's north tries and doesn't quite succeed. Hanoi possesses colonial buildings, a propensity for stately sidewalk vegetation and a love of cafes, it's true; but the manic traffic, the wall-to-wall motos take away from the ambiance in the end. The Old Quarter, too, is a place where Asia lives alone, full shops and stalls running themselves in lanes sometimes big enough only for one full-grown person to pass.

And Saigon? Well. Saigon looks more American than anything.

In Cambodia, local culture drowns out French influence. The Silver Pagoda and the Royal Palace take architectural pride of place in Phnom Penh; the downtown markets lend the haphazard feel of Asia, spilling into the streets. Angkor Wat and the other temples near Siem Reap are a reminder that The Khmers Were Here.

Laotian cities, in comparison, embrace a little more of their colonial past. I look for a guesthouse in Vientiane and walk down a street marked Rue Nokeo Koummane, cross another labelled Rue Sasenthai. Trees, spaced evening down the sidewalk, stretch languidly above, giving the impression of a carefully manicured urban jungle, a green canopy for people in the cafes.

Ah, the cafes. In Luang Prabang and Vientiane, many of them go by French names: Croissant d'Or, Le Banneton to name two. In shaded courtyards, they provide little tables that are tidy and meant for two. They serve coffee, not too thick and bitter as in Vietnam or Cambodia, that approximate and surpass the best European blends; the milk, steamed, comes in a precise, miniature metal carafe. Croissants butter and flake on a just-big-enough plate. Proximity with France is as much presentation as it is the food.

Imitation also comes in one of Vientiane's biggest landmarks, the Patouxai. It's the Laotian Arc de Triomphe. Up Rue Lane Xang in the northeast of town, this version is more top-heavy and has thicker pillars than what I remember of the original on the Champs Elysees, but gets the gist of the idea. It also offers a pleasant view of greater Vientiane from the top.

None of this - seats in the shade, meals of just the right size and presentation and mimickry of French architecture - is to say that Laos does not have its own culture. To the contrary: monks, usually in pairs, stroll up and down in their orange robes; Buddhist temples are everywhere; markets, smaller than in other Asian towns, sell their knick-knacks and roasted meat skewers. This is definitely Asia and not Europe.

It is only to say that towns here seem to hold onto pockets of distinctive Frenchness, which has not been adapted in any way for the local culture.

Even the Laotians get into the act. A man outside Kosilo Books addresses me in soft, effeminate French. The bookstore will re-open later, he lisps.

I turn away, smile and think, Welcome to Vientiane, the Little Paris of Laos.

The Slow Boat to Laos

Long-distance travel used to take a long time.

Mongol hordes conducted wars over years, partly because they took weeks to get as far as Russia or China or the Middle East. Marco Polo travelled from Italy to Khublai Khan's court in the space of months. Europeans needed similar amounts of time to arrive in distant lands and administer their little pieces of empire. It was all very time-consuming.

In the modern age, the world is more easily accessible. My friend can get married in Hawaii and I can leave Canada the day before to be in time for the ceremony. I can plan a trip to Asia and expect to arrive in hours, not days or weeks.

The western world, in these days, the, expects instant gratification from travel. It has lost the patience for lengthy trips. It wants to get there now.

So what is it like to take one's time? What is it like to set out for a destination and not arrive in mere hours?

For answers, I took the slow boat from the Thai border to Luang Prabang in Laos, several kilometres down the Mekong River. The trip would take 2 days and roughly 14 hours of sunlight.

The first day saw me and 90 of my closest friends crowd onto a large, flat-bottomed boat. For seats, we had narrow and very upright benches. Good thing I bought a cushion from vendors on the dock, I thought. The lot of us got settled and the boat was underway by 11:30am.

The travel agents who coordinated our trip had offered the last-minute alternative of a bus to Luang Prabang. Either they had over-sold the boat or they were just trying to score an extra few dollars. Or both.

Whatever the case, I refused and was glad I did. The banks of the Mekong showed off vibrant green jungles and lush mountainsides. The shore alternated between craggy grey rocks, some that popped right out of the water, and powder white beaches.

The wind whispered across the tops of our heads. The sun shone, then disappeared as we navigated a kink in the river. We lounged and sometimes slept.

We were, however, also modern travellers and looking at scenery could only entertain for so long. Some people stood and paced. Some broke out cards and started a game. Others retreated within their iPods. I was without any kind of entertainment, having finished my book, American Gods, just before the boat launched. Generally, I sat and looked over the railing.

On the second day, though, after a stop in the village of Pakbeng, Rob sat next to me. He's a lighting technician from Vancouver and has a history of travelling. His parents had taken him all over Europe as a child and he's been to almost forty countries in twenty years of going overseas.

We chatted about travel and found another form of entertainment when that subject finished up.

Two English girls, Kim and Zoe, were sitting in front of us. I pulled the hood up on Zoe's sweater and looked off to my right, suddenly engrossed in the scenery. Zoe turned and looked straight at Rob. He froze, a deer in the headlights.

"It wasn't me - hey, where'd you get those earphones?!" He stared straight at her and hoped she didn't notice the change of subject. A smile pulled at the corner of his mouth.

"That was great! What a distraction!" I doubled up, laughing.

"What?! I'm really interested in her earphones!" But he'd lost it too.

Zoe still stared, never having said a word, now trying to figure the two of us out.

The three of us proceeded to have a conversation about earphones, for my part through laughter and with tears in my eyes, then went back to watching the scenery.

Little kids climbed along the rocks and waved hello - sabai dee! Cows grazed where there was enough grass. Huts rested among the trees. What were they there for? Who lived there? Our boat passed on without any answers.

Rob and I read in the travel guide about caves near Luang Prabang and kept an eye out for them.

"Look, is that a cave?" asked Rob.

"No man, that's a boat."

"Oh. Right." He looked at me out the side of his face.

The caves were important, being very near our destination. We saw them near the end of the afternoon, marked by a number of boats and a staircase cut into the mountain.

An hour later, at 5pm, we docked and heaved our packs up the stairs. Hotel owners greeted us and, choosing one, we took off down the streets of Luang Prabang, finally there after two full days.

Long-distance travel, over days not hours, is no different than short trips but for the need of increased occupation. People who will be passengers for a long time need to focus on keeping themselves busy: with music, with books or with talking to friends.

There's nothing to surviving travel on the slow boat but laughter and a conversation about earphones.

The Taste of Thailand

The taste of Thailand: a splash of coconut milk; a dollop of curry paste; stir-fried chicken; eggplant, lime leaves, asian basil and chilies; fish sauce to taste.

These are the ingredients for a traditional green curry I leaned at A Lot of Thai Home Cooking Class in Chiang Mai.

A girl named Welcome - "My parents were hippies, what d'you want?" she asks - recommends the course. She's been volunteering in Thailand and speaks the language; I figure she has a better idea than most about experiences that get at genuine Thai culture and keep her advice in mind. In Chiang Mai, I get the last space for a Tuesday class.

Our teacher, Siripen Siryabhaya, whom everyone calls Yui, is full of energy and keen to ensure a positive experience for her students. She hands over her recipe book with a smile as I step into her beat up green sedan. It has all the recipes for that day's class and more.

When we arrive at her home, which doubles as a classroom, I see that the woks are already set on their burners, the kitchen utensils and ingredients already placed at the ready. We will spend most of our time with demonstrations and our own cooking, not preparing our workspace.

Demonstrating the safe way to light a gas element, Yui shows herself to be a demanding cook and a joker. "You burn hair, no problem," she says. "You burn garlic, you fail the course." We smile and crowd around for the initial cooking lesson.

First up: phad thai. Tofu, garlic and spring onions fly into the wok and we learn how to tell the difference between too much and not enough oil. Chicken, noodles and egg come next, added separately, combined effortlessly, cooking all the while, and we have the final product.

A ladle of water over dry noodles to stir-fry them and the use tamarind paste in, well, anything are particular revelations for me and I go confidently away, prepared to make my noodles.

I burn the garlic. The element is too hot and stir-frying is a lot quicker than grilling a piece of meat or simmering a stew. My noodles turn out okay, though, and we carry on with the course.

The class proceeds to make spring rolls, green curry, hot and sour soup, stir-fried chicken and cashews, and sticky rice with mango. Yui watches us go through each recipe after her demonstration, giving instructions when necessary.

"You need more oil; see the pan? It's too dry."

"More water here."

"Your element is too hot. You'll burn the garlic."

She even show me how to wrap my spring rolls and helps me re-wrap when I try one on my own. As the day progresses, there are fewer mishaps: not so many burned ingredients; less smoke rising off the woks. The cooks chop faster and learn they can't look away from sizzling food. All the dishes turn out tasty.

We go to the market at the end of the day. Yui shows us all the foods from the recipes and tells us about a whole lot of others. I learn that galangal is a similar idea to ginger and that vendors sell types of rice that sometimes differ only in how long ago they were harvested.

Our guide also takes questions.

"Is oyster sauce here different from the stuff in China?" asks Eugene, from London.

"No, same same... but different," smirks Yui through our guffaws. We just got her to utter the biggest English-language cliche in South East Asia and she knows it.

Oyster sauce, like any other sauce of course, has the same ingredients but a different mix of them depending on the brand or the country.

We continue on, smelling different varieties of basil, asking about morning glory, eyeballing huge tubs of curry paste. We see the different kinds of rice noodles - this kind for soup, that one for phad thai. We learn that some restaurants use citric acid, sold in baggies one would expect to see a goldfish in, rather than lemons or limes for flavour in some dishes.

I have always loved strolling through markets, though never really know what I am seeing. Now I do.

About an hour of learning to shop like a local leads us to the end of our day. We stand around thanking Yui for her trouble. She thinks of the effort as nothing at all.

"I enjoy cooking. I want everyone to enjoy it too."

We have, and all of us now have more cooking skills and a taste of Thai culture to bring home with us. Hopefully, I've learned not to burn the garlic.

Small Town Mountain

I'm a small town boy. Might live in a city now, but I ain't from there. No sir.

My memories started in a community called Blueberry Creek, just off the highway that runs between Castlegar and Trail. Maybe 1000 people lived in the town; we didn't even have a grocery store or, after my grade 1 year, a school of any description. When my family moved, it was to the slightly larger centre of Cranbrook then to the northern metropolis of Prince George, roughly 75,000 people at the time.

I remember the sense of community from those years. There weren't so many restaurants or clubs or bars, so my parents would have friends over for parties, or they would have us, kids and all. We would also go to one of the many lakes, or tobogganing in the winter. People got to know each other. They had to because they lived in the same small town together. They were neighbours.

My fond memories of little communities like those ones is probably the reason I liked the town of Pai, tucked into the folded mountains northwest of Chiang Mai.

I liked the town despite the drive up to it. The road curved and wound, yet we drove in a straight line for most of the time. Our driver laid rubber on hairpin turns, caused pieces of the bus to shake and squeal. People sitting together constantly knocked legs, knees and arms. Hands got sore from holding on.

"Jesus!" That was me. A silver sedan going the other way and passing on the right only just managed to slip back into its own lane before we got there.

Concrete beneath my toes had never felt so nice as it did at the end of that ride.

Equilibrium restored, I found a small town around me. The town centre lacked street lights. A walk one day got me outside the city limits in five minutes and many of the lanes to get from here to there were not big enough for cars to pass. One of the bridges that took visitors out to the surrounding countryside was made of bamboo and thatch, for pedestrians only.

The pace of life was slower too. Maybe the people knew that nothing would happen in any great hurry but would happen all the same. Most shops were mostly empty most of the time. Clerks looked over when I strolled in and wondered if they should get up - they didn't. There were no tuk-tuks, no people shouting to get my attention. They waited for me to come to them and sometimes I did.

The lack of constant activity, though, meant that the town had to have great scenery to keep visitors busy during the day and Pai did. A dirt path took me past fields of farmers working away and a stream burbling next to me. The trees on the hill off to my right were frosted red on top of green. Sunlight crested the ridge and brightened everything. It was something from a Wordsworth poem, that scene.

The intended destination for my walk - a waterfall, going to which involved walking across a small river several times, climbing fences and rocks and mingling with grazing cows - did not happen. My boots did not fancy getting soaked.

Instead, I wandered up to the ancient town of Vieng Nur. It was sleepy little village of one main street and the occasional yappy dog. A town like that one is never about the place itself: there wasn't much to see except little shops and locals sitting in the sun. A town like that one is about the walk past mountains and rivers and forests on the way. After finding a bite to eat, I headed for home through that same scenery.

Back in Pai, I saw that the streets had gotten busier - vendors seemed to save their energies for tourists who had finished their day trips. People strolled up and down the main street and bought shish kabobs, cheap noodles and stickers that said Hippies Smell. Women from local hill tribes, their mouths stained red from betel nut, sold colourful fabric hats and bags. Portable lamps caught smoke wafting into the night and bargains going down.

A smaller town, a slower life, nothing to do but go outside: reminders of childhood are always nice. That said, Pai is a beautiful place no matter who you are or what you remember.

Everything to Do, Nothing to See

The hub of northern Thailand, Chiang Mai is a centre for activity, not a place to look at or to watch.

It's quiet and lacks urban aggression. Locals lounge outside their shops, just waiting. A sprite of a woman floats from the back of her restaurant and notices that I and two English guys, Paul and Scott, have arrived. She brings us menus and floats back. It's a while before we can order.

Later, down a lane dappled by sunlight, a man rolls past on his bicycle at the speed of his afternoon.

The three of us walk to the ends of the old town, see a little of the city outside the walls. Enough to know what the place is about. I realize that I've seen all I want to.

There are the temples, of course. They mark the city like a spoonful of sugar spilled onto a coffee table. But by now I'm templed out.

Temples are South East Asia's response to European castles and churches: one can find them anywhere in the region. Vietnam has temples and ruins and Buddhas scattered up and down the coast. In Cambodia, Phnom Penh boasts the Grand Palace and the Silver Pagoda and, not to be missed, Angkor Wat lies just outside Siem Reap. There's a lot to see.

It is Angkor Wat that finally gets me. Seeing such splendid stonework, and on such a scale, lessens the brightness of all the other lights and I cannot be bothered once I hit Bangkok and its pile of temples.

"It's no good to have the peak in the middle of your trip," says Paul. "You have nothing to look forward to."

So I take my travel guide's advice and look into the activities in and around Chiang Mai. It tells me that there are any number of day trips outside the town and many courses available to give me a taste of Thai culture.

Paul and Scott find a trip out to a national park. Doi Inthanon sports a number of waterfalls, a hilltribe village and "the highest spot in Thailand", 2565 metres up. The tour company will drive us there and back, take us to the various sights and provide lunch. I say yes.

The choice is a good one. Our tour guide lets us see the sights at our own pace, doesn't hold our hand. At the falls, water crashes from a great height, wets the stones under our feet. When we get closer, it mists our clothes and camera lenses. The Karen hilltribe, in their village of basic huts, weaves gorgeous silks and serves locally-produced coffee, dark and smooth.

"The highest spot in Thailand" is the only mild disappointment, providing no view to the bottom, but we get some amusement. The souvenir shop sells bottles of oxygen to combat altittude sickness. Sniggering ensues, which we try to suppress with so many Thais around wearing scarves and mittens and toques.

Over the next couple of nights, I hit Chiang Mai's night bazaar. Blankets, pillow cases, place mats, scarves and shawls: all can be found in the stalls, beautiful examples of Thai craftsmanship. Not normally a shopper, my wallet empties rather quickly then.

The last full day is a cooking class. I learn how to cook traditional dishes like phad thai and green curry. The teacher demonstrates each recipe, warning us not to burn the garlic all the while, and takes us to the market to see the ingredients she uses. I finally see galangal in the flesh and learn that it is similar to ginger.

I head to Pai the next day - Paul and Scott have already departed for Laos - but sit down to breakfast first. As I sip my coffee, a Swiss woman says hello and confirms my suspicions about this city.

"I went for a hilltribe trek and, yesterday, I did a cooking class. Today, I start a 2-day foot massage course," she says.

She has been in Chiang Mai a week already and still isn't bored. Hiking, visiting hiltribes and taking courses - this woman spends her time doing a lot but not seeing much of the city itself.

Over four days here, I have done the same. There is everything to do and nothing to see.

The Madness of Khao San

Khao San Road. Tourist trap. Locals' money maker. People watcher's fix. With constant activity, this little strip of pavement at the centre of Bangkok is a sight to behold.

The first thing I notice on the Road is that sounds bleed into each other. Here's one of the suit sellers, a well-dressed Thai man, hair slicked back, one big smile asking his question. Here's the bootlegged music store playing a piece of its baseline. Here's the woman at her stall hawking noodles on the spot.

"My friend!boomboomphadthai!want suit?" But the sounds fade in and out, people change and the next minute I get a mix of tee shirt vendor-bar-fabric merchant. "Tee-shiiiiiirt!Youwantbeer?bag?cocktail?"

Once I sort through the noise enough to see what's happening around me, I notice the signs above my head. Mr. Yai's Tattoo Parlour confidently proclaims, Professinally New Needle Every Time Open 11:00am. A banner advertises the local police force: Meet Our Men in Brown, We Know This Town! The one-person drink boards promise cocktails and beer that are Very Strong. One adds, We Don't Check ID.

Then there are the tee-shirts. Bangkok is filled to bursting with them and has designs for everyone. I see the standard shirts for Chang and Singha Beers, the strange but tourist-friendly phrase, Same Same But Different. I see the appeal to backpackers: If Lost and/or Drunk, Please Return to... with an address block below. I see the stick figure bride and groom above the words Game Over. An American who's getting married in Thailand tells me he is going to buy that one.

"I'm going to wear it when I meet my fiancee at the airport," he laughs, "but I figure it gets one use and then goes away."

At night, I go down to the Road for the crowd watching. I can sit in the same place night after night, a collection of plastic stools on the sidewalk called Kim's Cocktails, and never see the same thing twice. Hundreds of people shuffle by in minutes, thousands in an hour. Many have heads that are set to a permanent swivel, eyes that barely blink. It's only the people who have just arrived in town who don't look around; once the bags are gone, they'll look up and see what they missed the first time.

Tonight, there's a tourist, all dreadlocks and grunge, who's peer-pressuring other travellers to drink at Kim's. He's even picked up on the basic advertising tactic: get in front of the intended target, place drink board - Very Strong Cocktails - innocently at their eye level, and just keep talking. The aw shucks grin doesn't hurt either.

The flower sellers are here too, combative little girls who slip in and out of tiny gaps in the crowd. One calls me a loser and sticks out her tongue when I refuse her a thumb war. A loss would cost me 100 baht and she's banking on too many beers in my system. I'm banking on the same. With a poke to my side and a mock pout, she skips off into the noise to challenge someone else, roses towering above her head.

What's next?, I think.

Next is Mr. Thailand, who seals Khao San's fate. He wears cheaply made sunglasses that cover his face and a knee-length jacket that would be zebra-striped except for the butterfly pattern. Normally, he's also on a massive bike, which is covered in advertisements for every business in Bangkok and plays pop music from forty years ago. Tonight, though, he's on foot and gazes at the crowd like any other tourist.

The place is that shocking: even locals can be impressed by it. One does not simply go to see the sights and sounds of Khao San Road. One goes to stare, to gape, to blink and gape again. One goes to see Khao San Road happen. Welcome to the madness.